"I won't trouble you further, Jack," he remarked. Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. “Well,” she said. Side by side with the cheese (its never-failing accompaniment, in all seasons, at the carpenter's board) came a tankard of swig, and a toast. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. There was the same airy grace of movement, the same deep brown hair and alabaster skin. The crown has passed from the brow of one monarch to that of another.
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